It was cold, and he wished he’d brought a jacket, but Ross said nothing. He’d come across wimpy enough as it was. She was still holding his hand, and on the way back, her fingers rubbed lightly against his. He remembered seeing a Michael Palin travel show about the Himalayas, and in one tribal village, the girls would dance with the boys in a kind of public ceremony, and if a girl rubbed her finger on a boy’s palm, it meant she wanted sex. Jill was doing that right now to him, and the feeling was electric. It was as though the nerves in his hand connected directly with his penis, and he walked all the way back to her house with a very pleasurable erection.
Inside, she made coffee to warm them up, and put on some music, romantic piano music that he didn’t recognize.
They ended up kissing on the couch, making out like high schoolers, and soon he was grinding against her as her legs spread wide and her crotch pressed up against his. Moments later, they were in the bedroom and their clothes were off. It happened quickly, and he barely had time to wish that he’d showered for his date before she was frantically slipping a condom on and guiding him inside her. It had been awhile, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold out, but he didn’t have to. She came even more quickly than he did, and as soon as she finished, she was whispering in his ear, coaxing him to climax. Which he did—and she did again—powerfully.
They lay there, spent.
“Wow,” she said.
Jokingly, he pumped his fist in the air. “Got her on the first date.”
“Let me assure you, this is not a regular occurrence.”
“Hence the condom drawer.”
She slapped his shoulder. “I’m serious!”
“I know,” he said, laughing. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a long time for me,” she admitted.
“Me, too.”
They were silent for a moment.
“So,” Ross said finally, “now can I see some of your paintings?”
She nodded, gave him a quick kiss. “Yes,” she said. “You can.”
ELEVEN
Cameron Holt strode into the veterinarian’s office with his fists clenched. He was angry but determined to keep himself under control and not make a scene, despite the fact that Gonzalez had not returned any of his calls and had been ducking him for nearly a week. Rye Callahan was in the waiting room—Cameron had seen one of his pigs in the trailer out front—as was an old Mexican guy with a scuzzy dog on a leash, but he strode past them, ignored the receptionist and pushed through the swinging door to the back, where Gonzalez was stuffing his face with a breakfast burrito.
The veterinarian looked up, startled, as Cameron barged into the room. He swallowed quickly. “I am still waiting for lab results—” he began.
“My cattle are dying! Four more today! How long does it take for your goddamn lab to run a blood test?”
“It’s not just a blood test, it’s—”
“You should know something by now! You should at least have a general idea!”
The two men faced each other, and Cameron saw something flicker across the vet’s features: fear. He was afraid, not of Cameron but of what was happening, and Cameron knew that Gonzalez knew that he knew.
“I found out what you did.” The vet crossed himself.
“You superstitious old woman!” Cameron had promised himself that he wouldn’t yell, but he couldn’t help it. “It’s your job to cure sick animals and prevent diseases, not listen to local gossip.”
“God is mad at you.”
“Jesus fuck!”
Gonzalez crossed himself again.
“Knock that shit off,” Cameron ordered. “My stock is dying. There’s a disease going around, and we need to stop it before it wipes out my entire herd. And my neighbors’. It’s not magic or evil spirits or—”
“God.”
“Listen, asshole. If you think killing animals is God’s will, then why in the hell did you become a vet, huh? You’re thwarting God’s plan. Every time you cure a sick animal, you’re going against His wishes and getting rid of the sickness that He gave those animals. Is that what you believe? Because if you do, you’re already going to hell, and you might as well just do your job and find out what’s killing my cattle. If you don’t, and you actually understand that this is all bullshit, then stop fluttering around like some frail old Sunday school teacher and get busy. Either way, get to fucking work.”
Gonzalez did not respond.
Cameron frowned. “Did you even send that stuff to a lab?” he demanded. He suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that the little beaner was lying to him, and the thought made him furious. He was tempted to just sweep his hand across the counter to his left and knock all of Gonzalez’s veterinary implements to the floor, but he restrained himself.
“Of course,” the vet said.
“God didn’t tell you to pray about it instead?”
“I told you. I am waiting for the results. As soon as they come in, I will let you know. Yours are not the only animals that died, you know. I collected samples from all of the affected ranches.”
Cameron didn’t believe him. What the vet said was logical, reasonable and might very well be true, but it sounded like a lie to him—or, rather felt like a lie—and Cameron stepped forward, putting his finger in Gonzalez’s face. “Get the results. Today. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’m coming back. I can’t afford to have any more of my animals die. If they do, it’ll be your fault, and you’ll pay for that.”
The threat was strong, the moment was right, and Cameron strode out, back to the waiting room, where a worried-looking old woman with an orange cat in a cage had joined Rye Callahan and the Mexican guy. The cat was whistling, an odd birdlike sound that made the hairs on the back of Cameron’s neck stand on end and for some reason made him think of the red moths that had flown out of his dead cattle. All four people, including the receptionist, had obviously heard the shouting from the other room, and they stared at him silently as he walked past them.
He pushed open the door and headed into the parking lot, trying to ignore the freakish whistling of the cat. But the tune stayed with him, stuck in his head, and by the time he drove back to the ranch, he was whistling it himself.
****
Cameron Holt was the last straw.
Jose Gonzalez had been thinking about leaving Magdalena ever since he’d learned what had happened New Year’s Eve, but it was Holt who made up his mind for him. No job was worth this risk. Not just the physical risk, but the risk to his soul. God was angry at Magdalena, and the sooner he got out of here the better. There was always need for a good livestock vet. He could get a job anywhere there were farms or ranches. He didn’t need to stay here. Sure, he liked the area, and he’d made a lot of friends, but things were going bad, and they were going bad fast.
On a practical level, his cell phone reception, which had been hit and miss, was now almost exclusively miss. WiFi no longer seemed to work, and even the DSL line in his office was out more often than not. He’d been relying on dial-up for his computer, which was slow under the best of circumstances, and in the case of looking up information for medical emergencies, of which there’d been more than a few the past week, was almost completely useless.
There was a power here that was interrupting all of these devices.
The same power that was creating monsters.
For it was not only the ranchers who were affected now. The problems were spreading. He’d seen pets in the last few days that exhibited symptoms and behavior he had not only never encountered before but had never imagined before, pets that were not merely ill but that had been transformed: a suddenly hairless German shepherd that had given birth to a macaw, a rabbit whose ears had fallen off and been replaced by horns.
Maybe he could have gotten a jump on all this, maybe he’d had the opportunity to nip it in the bud, but Holt was right; he hadn’t sent in the samples to be analyzed. He couldn’t. Because the petri dishes had fallen on the floor once he’d gotten them ba
ck to his office. Or, to be more accurate, they’d jumped to the floor. Returning from the bathroom, he’d arrived just in time to see the last petri dish spring off the counter where he’d placed it and fall to the floor, its gray goopy contents spilling out and joining the gelatinous mess from the other samples that had slopped onto the tile. The entire thing quivered as though it was alive and filled him with such revulsion that he’d reacted without thinking, holding his breath so as not to breathe what might very well be toxic fumes and pouring a bottle of alcohol on the blob in an effort to kill it. The mass dissolved into a smoky liquid, and he quickly left the room, going to the supply closet and putting on gloves and a surgical mask before returning to clean up the mess with a mop and bucket that he threw in the dumpster immediately afterward.
He’d intended to go back and get some more samples from the bodies of the cattle that had not yet been burned, but then he’d found out what had happened, and he’d been afraid to return. He’d been ducking Holt and the other ranchers ever since, and, knowing this day would come, he had started thinking several days ago that maybe it was time to leave Magdalena.
Now he knew that it was.
He was a doctor, and he was ethical, so he saw all of the patients that had been brought in—even Mrs. Miller’s spooky whistling cat, for which he had no explanation or advice—but as soon as he was through, he told Janine to go home, closed up the office and headed to his house to pack his bags. He felt bad about not telling Janine the truth, letting her think that they were just taking the day off, but he didn’t want it to know that he was leaving.
Whatever it was.
He would make it up to his receptionist, though, after he was out of here and safe. He’d send her a severance check and a recommendation. Not that a recommendation would be of much use to her here in Magdalena. But she was smart and had ambition, and maybe this would spur her to move on and look for work elsewhere. Hell, maybe he’d even invite her to work for him once he found a place and got settled.
But first things first.
He needed to get out of here.
He closed up the office and spent the next two hours loading up all of his books, medicine and medical equipment. Back at the house—a house he was renting from Cameron Holt’s buddy Cal Demholm—Jose packed his clothes and most important personal belongings. It was nearly dark, his van was full, and there was still a lot of stuff to go, so he paused to decide what to do. He’d intended to just take off and make a clean break, but he saw now that that wasn’t going to be possible. It would take three, maybe four, trips to haul all of his possessions away, and the smartest thing to do might be to wait until morning, drive over to Tucson and find a storage unit, then return with a U-Haul and get everything else. He could live in a hotel for a few days while he decided where to go next.
A tap on his window made him jump.
Jose looked up to see a bright red moth the size of his hand fly into the window, flutter away for a moment, then hit the glass again. It looked like a larger version of the moths that had emerged from the bodies of Holt’s cows, but this one did not disintegrate. Indeed, it continued trying to get into the house, flying into the window again and again and again. Its mindless determination made him decide that it was better to leave tonight and come back tomorrow when it was light. The moth scared him, and he picked up one last box of books and carried them out to the van.
The moth hit him in the head.
There was a burning sensation where it struck his ear, as though the creature were made of molten metal. Jose cried out, dropping the box and putting a hand to the side of his head. His ear felt hot and sticky to the touch, and his hand when he looked at it was red with blood. Quickly, he hopped into the back of the van, leaving the box on the ground. He slammed the door shut before the moth tried to attack him again, and scrambled over his piled belongings until he reached the front seat.
Where a yellow spiderlike creature jumped up from the floor and attached itself to his arm.
Screaming, he tried to bat it off, but the thing’s legs were digging into his skin, holding on, and its small flattened head was bent over, its fanged mouth biting into his flesh. Blood was running down his arm in multiple rivulets, dripping onto the seat. Jose used his other hand to grasp the creature’s midsection, and though the pain was tremendous and he could both see and feel pieces of skin tearing off, he yanked it up, pulled it out, and held it away from his body, trying not to let the thrashing head or any of the wiggling legs touch him.
It looked like one of the spiderthings that had come out of Joe Portis’ cattle, only this one hadn’t dissolved after encountering air. It was very much alive, and he smashed it onto the top of the dashboard as hard as he could, again and again, until it stopped moving and two of its legs had broken off. He considered opening the door or window and throwing it outside, but was afraid that something else might get in, so he dropped it on the floor and squished it with the heel of his boot, gratified to hear a crunching sound as he ground it into the worn dirty carpet.
Breathing heavily, Jose stared down at the shattered body, wondering if it had sprung from one of the samples he’d taken. Maybe some of the gloop had leaked onto the floor and this had emerged from that.
He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. A week ago, he’d been happy, successful, and perfectly content. Now he was battered and bloody and fleeing for his life. God was punishing Magdalena, and he wasn’t going to hang around to see how things turned out. Checking the front seat and the floor to make sure there were no more surprises awaiting him, Jose pulled out his key, started the van and drove away. Once past the edge of town, he pulled to a stop, opened the driver’s side door and used his boot to scrape what was left of the creature out of the van.
He slammed the door shut, put the van into gear and sped down the dirt road, through the desert, praying that nothing else attacked him as he put Magdalena in his rearview mirror.
TWELVE
For the twelfth day in a row, Father Ramos awoke with a headache and the memory of a nightmare. He opened his eyes slowly, bracing himself. As always, the pain behind his temple was so powerful that it hurt even to move his head, so he remained completely still on the pillow, praying without putting his hands together, begging for relief before attempting to sit up.
There was a lightning flash of agony, followed by unbearable pressure on his brain.
He wanted to cry out but dared not, because he knew God was watching and this was the punishment he was meant to endure.
He thought of last night’s dream, in many ways the most horrific one he’d had because, while it was less overtly fantastic than the others, it seemed more real. In it, Cameron Holt, who was not Catholic—or even religious, as far as Father Ramos knew—had come to the church for Confession. But in the confessional, instead of admitting his sins, Holt, laughing, had pulled down his pants and defecated. Before anything could be done about it, the rancher had withdrawn a knife that he’d brought with him and stabbed himself in the stomach. He’d obviously planned to commit suicide, but, just as obviously, he had not anticipated how much it would hurt, and his piercing cries of agony echoed in the church as Father Ramos scrambled out of his booth and tried desperately to open the other side of the confessional. Holt had done something to jam the door, however, and Father Ramos used all of his strength and weight to break the door open. Holt was still screaming—a sustained shriek that should not have been able to come out of that mouth—and he was crumpled on the tiny floor of the confessional, his limbs twisted like those of a contortionist crammed into a small box. There was blood everywhere, and excrement, and with a final cry so loud that Father Ramos thought his eardrums would burst, Cameron Holt passed out. Father Ramos managed to pull him from the booth, but he saw instantly that there was no hope. The rancher had not merely stabbed himself, he had slit his stomach open, and organs were spilling out along with blood, falling through the sliced flap of skin and muscle. Holt opened his eyes, and for one last coherent secon
d, he stared into Father Ramos’ face. “You killed me,” he said, and died.
The dream still disturbed him, and he tried not to think of it as he slowly, slowly, swung around, put one foot out of the bed, then the other and, ignoring the pain, stood. He moved with effort, wincing at every step, and though the pain in his head lessened a little as he made his way toward the kitchen, it did not go away. He wondered if he should see a doctor.
Maybe he had a brain tumor.
He didn’t really think that, though, did he?
No.
Because the headaches had started after that night—which made it even more frightening to him than a brain tumor because it involved the fate of his very soul.
He had no appetite, something very rare for him, and for breakfast he drank only a small glass of orange juice that he used to wash down the Advil he hoped would temper his headache. Sitting there, eyes closed, the pain did gradually subside to a dull throb, and he was eventually able to leave his quarters, prepare for this morning’s mass and put on his vestments.
Ordinarily, unless it was a religious holiday like Easter or Christmas, he could expect about a third of the church members to show up for services, although some of the others might trickle in for confession later in the week to atone for their absence. Last Sunday, the pews were virtually empty, only three families arriving, for a new record low. It was because of what had happened on New Year’s Eve, he knew, and he expected the same today. But when he entered the chapel from the vestry—
the church was full.
Father Ramos stared out at his parishioners, caught completely by surprise. The church had never been this crowded before. Every seat was taken, some with parishioners he did not even recognize, and he wondered for the first time if what had happened had been a roundabout way for the Lord to increase the size of His flock here in Magdalena.
The Influence Page 10
